


Dozens of Colours of Thread

by Blue_Thallium (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2011-07-26
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Blue_Thallium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only you could feel pity for such a vile woman. (Edit: Pre Ancestor updates)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dozens of Colours of Thread

For the few of your kind who still care for their looks and their clothing, you stitch. For those who do not think that fashion is an outdated concept, you sew. For yourself, you spend hours every day, bent over piles of fabric, your eyeballs practically pressed down to the material you’re stitching. Your eyesight is very dull at night, compared to most, so you work largely during the day, when your vision is stronger. You probably need spectacles, but you’ll be damned if you put something so deliberately ugly on your face.

Spectacles don’t suit you at all. You’d don’t have the right look for them at all. You are plain, you think. You lack the broad cheekbones and hard jaws typical of females in the aristocracy, in paintings and picture books. You are quite delicate, in fact, quite ugly. Your eyes are much too large, your bone structure fine where it should be solid or handsome.

Some trolls like the way you look. You’re easy to pity, with a face like that. And some trolls stare at your horns, which look as elegant as they are large and dangerous looking. They balance out the weakness in your face.

Your body is... boyish, mostly. Your shoulders and waist, a little too narrow to lend much androgyny to you.

Yes – you are quite plain, all in all. Very dull.

Though – that’s not what Mindfang thinks.

She is a customer, a blue blood and something of a _pirate_ \- if you’d understood the rumours you’d heard correctly. She loves your work. After the usual disdainful remarks on your short, tidy hair, the sneering at your small shop, and the requests your other customers, she positively _fawns_ over your work.

“You’re a genius!” She cries, mouth open in marvel at your latest creation. She awes at your stitching, the intricacy of your embroidery, the way you get the leather all supple and glossy. She runs over your stitching with one hand – the claws clipped, surprisingly, very short, especially in contrast to her other -   sighing, as if she’s fallen head over heels for her new outfit.

In return, you marvel at her. She is truly wild – her hair falling to her waist, a filthy, knotted halo; some huge pile of snakes, tangled and fighting and fucking.

She is foul mouthed, her hips and breasts curving out from her torso like waves. Her pointed tongue running over painted, neon blue lips, that sat perfectly in the centre of her strong, harsh jaw.

Mindfang is everything you’re not – clean, fussy little tailor that you are. She is beautiful - a dangerous force of nature.

By all rights, you should hate her. You should fear her, and hate her - how could such a woman be anything other than perfect blackrom fodder.

You may be the only person who knows it, but beneath that demeanour is a troll, clearly, desperate to be feared, awed at – to be strong. You’ve barely scratched her surface, and all you see beneath is a mess of insecurities, a frightened little girl of five sweeps old, trying her best to prove her worth to everyone she meets – even mousy tailors with oddly coloured blood.

The insults, the elegant sneer twisting her too-full lips, the swaggering and the swearing. The whole facade is deliciously pathetic.

The light in her eyes while she squeals over your work is positively adorable, and you know if you told her she wouldn’t hesitate to slap you right across your mouth for your insolence – which just makes her even more ridiculous to you.

Then there’s the way she models the outfits for you. How she seems to know you like to look at her. She strips off, blackrom advances dripping from her harsh blue mouth, as she asks you why you’re fucking staring so much, if this is how you get your rocks off. You shake your head, smug. She is unaware of how dismal the whole display is. If you’re waxing anything, you’re waxing red, and when you tell her to just quieten down, and get changed, she seems to take it as a challenge.

“You’d like me to shut up, wouldn’t you?” She snarls, and you roll your eyes in response. “A genius you may be,” She says, offering her back for you to hook up the tight black bodice of this new outfit, (this was a strange number. She’d wanted something ‘Like the empress wears’ to ‘enrage a kismesis’, so you came up with this ridiculous, skimpy little black and blue dress, a mockery of the empress’ finery, that would have had any other troll culled,)  “but you, dear Tailor, are a fucking idiot when it comes to seeing opportunities to have a quadrant filled.”

“You already have a kismesis, Marquise, and a fine one too, that you should feel the need to go so far as to court their attentions.” Your fingers brush, slightly, over her sharp shoulder blades.

“But I do so enjoy black romance. And I can practically feel the disdain radiating from you. Almost as much as I feel those, _pretty_ lustful eyes on me while I change.” You’re done hooking her up, and she turns, pressing you against the wall of your own tiny fitting room. She is only slightly taller than you.

“Marquise... I do not hate you.” You tell her, firm, as a blush blooms in you cheeks. With a scowl and a thrust of her hips, she has you crushed even closer – your faces inches apart. She growls. “If anything, if you’ll allow me to speak out of turn,” you squeak, it’s involuntary, can’t be helped by the position she has you forced into. She has a sharp hipbone in your soft torso, and the heat between your thighs and in your stomach makes your throat tight, “I find you quite... pitiable.”

Her face softens. God, it’s like you’ve just slaughtered her lusus before her eyes, the miserable way she looks at you. Her lip quivers, and before you have time to register what any of this means, her mouth is upon yours.

This woman is not used to flushed kisses, and you can tell by the way she bites and sucks, practically fucking your trembling mouth with that venomous tongue of hers. Her teeth nick you lips, but you’re too shocked to fight back. You’d never imagined Mindfang feeling more than perhaps a moderate, less-than-platonic disdain for you – and even then she black-flirts with everyone.

She pulled away, looking... decidedly confused, and all you can do is press a hand to your bleeding lip.

“That looks like fear to me,” she says “Not pity.”

You shake your head, “You caught me off guard, Marquise.”

“Well.” She sighs, “I’ve always thought you to be a miserable, defenceless slip of a troll,” and you are suddenly aware of how hard your heart is pounding – how wet you are. “I suppose we’re Matesprits now, hmm?” Your response is a shrug. “Either way, Tailor, you’re coming with me before the night is out.”

“Excuse me, Marquise?”

“I’ll be taking you as my slave.”

“Ma’am?” You hope she’s joking. You know she’s not, but you hope, none the less.

“You heard me.” Mindfang smiles, all gangs and blue lips. “You’re mine now.”

“But I don’t want to be your slave.”

“I could kill you where you stand, Tailor, you do realise that?”

You swallow, unable to answer. You feel your bottom lip wobble. Mindfang, for all her cleverness, obviously hasn’t quite grasped the concept of matespritship.

This might just be her perverse way of protecting you.

She closes in on you. As she does, you look again at the dress you’ve put her in. You must have made a mistake with your measurements, because her breasts are practically falling out of the bodice. She notices you looking. She pulls the bodice as far down as she can get it, and then her breasts do fall out. You swallow, shifting your thighs, uncomfortable in your arousal, when she presses her chest, coloured with a slight blue, against yours and kisses you again. She’s more frantic now, excited as you, grabbing your thigh and squeezing till you realise she wants it hooked around her waist.

Her tongue flickers against yours as she shoves up your skirt, tearing your underwear off with the practiced curl of her clawed hand.

Her thumb slips between your wet folds, locating, quite instantly _that_ spot. She presses down too hard and rubs, and you squeal. She moves from your lips to your throat when you do, sucking the skin and sending a shiver through you, as you decide whether her other ministrations are causing you a great deal of pleasure, or a great deal of pain.

Her index finger is inside of you with no warning given, then her clawed hand is tearing at your blouse. Her hand roves you chest, squeezes and you can do nothing but squirm and choke on your own moans when she crooks her finger just right and slides the pad of her thumb in a similarly effective manner.

She practically shoves a second finger inside of you, thrusting them in and out with gusto, and it _burns_ because you’ve never done this before, but you want to scream for more. She bites down on your throat hard, and you bite your lips and claw at her back, half attempting to undo the bodice of her dress.

Then she pulls out of you completely, and you gasp at the sudden loss of sensation. Biting her way down your chest, she falls to her knees and pulls your skirt down, then encourages you to lift a leg onto her shoulder.

Her tongue. Lapping, twisting, rubbing, wet and strong, coupled with the sudden and welcome reintroduction of her fingers, your body shakes. Your knees begin to buckle, and you slide down the wall, Mindfang’s hand suddenly appearing on your backside, squeezing and supporting you. You brace yourself, remind yourself you’re _just_ fucking and that this _is not_ for genetic material, so you can come without a bucket.

Your hips jerk wildly toward her, and her tongue becomes even more vigorous. Your eyes have slammed shut without you even realising, and with a guttural groan you can hardly believe is leaving _your_ mouth, you come. Every nerve in your body alight as your muscles spasm, and your knees give way. Mindfang slides her fingers out of you and sits back, as you slide down the wall. She licks her lips, then wipes her mouth on the back of her hand in, grossly inelegant.

“Would you like me to-?”

“I’ve taken care of myself, thank you.” She says, raising an eyebrow. “Not that you’d have noticed, with how much you were enjoying yourself.”

“Yes. Sorry ma’am.”

Brazenly, she stands, strips off her dress and changed into the outfit she arrived in, talking all the while as she does.

“You pack. I’ll send someone for you after the sun comes up.” She sighs, “I have another like you on my ship who can stand our day light.”

You are too drained to answer. Huddled up on the floor. Toying with your ruined underwear.

“Be sure to bring all your clothes making doodads. You’ll be my _personal_ tailor from now on, as well as my Matesprit, of course.” She throws an almost affectionate smile at you. You think. Mindfang’s face is not built for affection.

“Your slave.”

“Lover... slave. There’s little difference with me.” She yawns then, and struts away, without saying goodbye. You hear a noise as she leaves. Crawling back into your shop, you see one of your many sewing boxes upturned on the floor, spools of thread scattered everywhere, unravelled and tangling.

Only you, you think, could feel pity for such a vile woman. Such a sad, awkward woman. 


End file.
